


whose leash, whose cur

by callmelyss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Come Eating, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, Force Choking, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Post TLJ, Rimming, That's Not How The Force Works, The Author Regrets Everything, Unhealthy Relationships, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Ah yes, Ren’s new favorite game. It started about a week after Crait; if he thinks Hux has strayed too far, somewhere he can’t keep an eye on him, he kriffingyankshim closer with the Force. It’s grown subtler over time. At first, it contented Ren to manhandle him as Snoke had, but he’s warmed to this other method—seeing how fast he can make him run—the pinch under Hux’s medulla oblongata like a fucking choke collar.





	whose leash, whose cur

“Armitage!”

For Hux, hearing his first name always feels like being backhanded across the face. Shocking. Infuriating. It leaves him reeling. Usually, it’s something of a rarity, but this makes for the sixth such instance today and the cycle’s barely half past.

The newest offender: Vice Admiral Sherrilyn Drees. In fact, everyone who has taken the liberty so far has borne the rank of Commodore or higher. Meaning, then, that his only recourse is to turn and offer a tight smile and a handshake. “Admiral, how good to see you,” he says and takes Drees’ gloved hand in his own. “I trust you’re well.”

He doesn’t give a bantha’s shaggy arsehole if she is. _Gossipy old cunt_ and one of Rae Sloane’s least deserving nemeses, if he has anything to say about it. But they have only made it through the preliminary meetings with the Admiralty and senior officers of the Order in the wake of Snoke’s demise, and Hux knows better than to engage in petty politics just yet. 

Especially not with Ren here.

The new Supreme Leader _has_ comported himself well so far, which is to say that all the attendees may yet count themselves among the living and nothing has, as of 1400, caught fire. True, he’s mostly scowled, said almost nothing, and left the vast majority of the talking to Hux, but that’s to be expected. First Order bureaucracy doesn’t interest him; it never has. 

No, he’s here, because he doesn’t trust Hux to represent his interests independently, nor does he trust him to stay on the _Finalizer_ and not stage a coup. (And, indeed, not _wrongly_.) Ergo, both of them attend the meetings, which also affords the surviving Admiralty their first long looks at the new leadership and ample time to whisper among themselves. 

_No funeral for Supreme Leader Snoke._

_And what qualifies his apprentice—?_

_What_ need _for these mystics at all?_

_Remember Vader…_

_He’s so young. Look at his face._

_And Hux. First Starkiller, now this? So much waste…_

_He seems cowed, doesn’t he?_

_Like a kicked dog_.

_You have to wonder, don’t you, how he secured his position this time?_

_There always were rumors_.

The knowing glances prick at him, but he gives no sign. Only tilts his head and pretends to listen to some tedious story Drees is telling from her Imperial days, something to do with a droid and a faulty sensor array and, consequently, a dismembered stormtrooper.  

He’s aware, as ever, of Ren’s presence in the room. He looks suitable, at least, in black brocade and high boots, long hair combed. Currently, he’s standing alone at the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, studying the yellow planet around which this station orbits. 

They’re in neutral territory near the boundary between the colonized planets and the Unknown Regions. The station—conference rooms, quarters, this lounge, a dining hall, and most importantly a discreet staff, all in varying shades of gray—caters to these sorts of meetings, tedious diplomatic negotiations far away from where everyone can point their cannons at each other. They all arrived by shuttle, as agreed, the Admiralty understandably uneasy, insisting on weapons lock-ups and extra security.

As though their exoteric precautions will protect them from a volatile Force-user.

 _He_ could give a seminar on the subject, and it still wasn’t enough to save him when the time came. Even now, a slight pressure _squeezes_ at the back of his neck, a reminder from Ren to behave himself, that Ren hasn’t forgotten him, even in this room full of scheming Imperial relics, all of them panting for him to make his first mistake. For _them_ to make _their_ first mistake. 

(And how spectacularly unfair, to find his fate so tied up with Ren’s because of _proximity_.)

“So I said to Rae—you remember Rae, she always spoke highly of you, Armitage—I said, there has to be a limit, my dear Sloane, there has to—Oh. Supreme Leader. It’s an honor, sir. Vice Admiral Drees, at your service.” 

He almost doesn’t notice Drees’ chatter sputtering to a halt, but he does feel Ren’s full attention land on him like an icy dousing. “General,” Ren says. Not acknowledging Drees before he walks away.

Hux has about three seconds to stammer his excuses before the unseen hand on his nape _drags_ him from the room. If he isn’t fast enough, he’ll stumble, his boots skidding across the carpet; he knows this, humiliatingly, from experience. He double-times his usual brisk pace to catch up with Ren while doing all he can to not visibly _jog_ after the Supreme Leader in front of every senior officer in the fleet.

Ah yes, Ren’s new favorite game. It started about a week after Crait; if he thinks Hux has strayed too far, somewhere he can’t keep an eye on him, he kriffing _yanks_ him closer with the Force. It’s grown subtler over time. At first, it contented Ren to manhandle him as Snoke had, but he’s warmed to this other method—seeing how fast he can make him run—the pinch under Hux’s medulla oblongata like a fucking choke collar.

“That was unnecessary,” Hux hisses when he falls into step with him.

Ren shoots him a look at the marked omission of a _Supreme Leader_ or, at least, a _sir_ , but doesn’t comment on it. “We have another meeting. And you didn’t want to talk to her anyway.”

“Yes, well.” He won’t refute that. “ _You_ won’t talk to any of them, so someone should.”

“They’re irrelevant,” Ren says. Not for the first time today. “Obsolete.”

Hux can’t bring himself to argue the point; it may be the only one on which he and Ren agree. The Admiralty’s been shuffling along behind the rest of the Order for years, overburdened by their nostalgia for the Empire-that-was.

 _If Rae were here_ —no, pointless to imagine that. She isn’t. 

“Like them or not, they’re your problem now,” Hux reminds him instead. 

“No,” Ren corrects him. “That’s what you’re for.”

_Is it?_

Truthfully, he doesn’t know _why_ he’s still alive, still trapped in Ren’s gravity. At a guess, it’s only habit that’s spared him. Ren’s used to him, his presence, even their mutual hostility sort of _worn_ and _comfortable_ , and he is, at least, a defined variable. Treacherous but known.

“Lucky me,” Hux replies, dryly.

Ren’s giving him another one of those sidelong glances, assessing his affect, or else directly reading his mind. Harder to make the distinction between _Ren in the room_ and _Ren in his head_ these days when he seems to be more or less everywhere.

His thoughts drift during the next two meetings. The first addresses their somewhat dire financial situation with the sudden disappearance of Snoke’s wealth. The second is on the topic of promotions and advancement. The older leadership would prefer to see commandants and colonels from their peer group elevated—unsurprising—while Hux tries to argue for the younger, Order-trained personnel of his own generation. 

The conversation progresses not at all, with the assembled officers braying about experience over youth. An old debate. He would shout louder regarding his people’s merits and has done so often in the past, only the day has begun to fatigue him and his thoughts are preoccupied, as they tend to be lately, with Ren.

With Snoke, at least, he knew the Supreme Leader had a grand design; he withheld the particulars, it was true, but the _purpose_ existed. And Hux had his own aims, of course, but he had been satisfied they would parallel Snoke’s until they didn’t. With Ren, no such assurances exist.

For the moment, their goal appears to consist of hunting down the Resistance and destroying everyone who ever knew the name Ben Solo. Beyond that, Hux suspects there’s nothing, no true floor under them, and he means to find a handhold before the fall comes.

If he can find an opportunity to kick Ren into the abyss when he does—well, all the better.

He’s trying to make a point about the quality of the combat experience his officers have gained when he feels the telltale flicker of being _noticed_ , that grip on his scruff. He stumbles a little mid-sentence and finishes the point as gracefully as he can manage. Tunes out the squawking that follows. 

He doesn’t need to turn to know those dark eyes are boring into him, but he does, shivering when their gazes meet. _What_ , he wants to ask, but he suspects he already knows Ren’s question: _What am I going to do with you?_

He still doesn’t have a compelling answer; it’s a problem.

Not long after, the afternoon’s discussion trudges to a halt. Hux stands and rubs his face with both hands. Another two cycles of this, of bickering and quibbling and being informed, yet again, that he dishonors the great traditions of the Empire, that he doesn’t truly understand their sacrifices, that he’s ungrateful, arrogant, untested. All of it with the millstone of the Force around his neck.

As they’re leaving, Ren not at all subtly tugging him towards the residential wing and their adjacent quarters, the seventh call of “Armitage!” slams between his shoulders like a blow. 

And, of course, the worst for last: Rear Admiral Blount, Brendol’s dearest, oldest, unfortunately-still-breathing friend steps into his path. A big man only just going soft, he uses his broad frame like a heavyweight cruiser, all intimidation and narrowing of space. One meaty hand knocks into Hux’s bicep, unsettling his balance, as, naturally, is intended.

“And the Supreme Leader!” Blount booms, throwing a salute and throwing out his chest. Like the rest of the Admiralty, his dress uniform gleams with outdated but well-polished medals. (Only Hux goes undecorated, as is his preference.) “I suppose congratulations—and condolences—are in order, Lord Ren. We’re all quite keen to hear your stratagems.”

Hux flinches. He had hoped Ren would keep walking when Blount accosted him.  

True to form, however, he only stares at the man.

“What old Brendol would have thought about this, eh?” Blount says after the stilted silence, undeterred. 

‘This’ meaning the meetings, yes, but also the state of the Order and both of them, two whelps with no right to the power they wield.

“I really couldn’t say,” Hux replies. His molars creak.

“Bit of a mess you lot have gotten yourselves into, though, idn’t it? Outdone by a bunch of filthy rebels. All those lost ships.” He’s a few pints in, it’s clear, his breath hot and yeasty on Hux’s cheek. Paw knocking into his arm again. The lounge has begun to fill with people, chatter, and the sound of clinking glass. 

“Yes, well,” Hux says. Pointed. “I’m sure you can relate.”

“He was a good man, your Dad,” Blount tells him, as he inevitably does every time they cross paths. As if repetition will make it true. “One of the finest I served with.” He belches. Surveys Hux with squinted eyes, like he’s getting his first good look at him. “Pity you don’t take after him more.”

He won’t reward that tired jab with a blink. Instead, he smiles, showing all of his teeth. “Indeed. But I’m afraid we must get on. Always a pleasure reminiscing with you, Admiral. Do continue to enjoy the refreshments.”

He turns sharply on one heel and makes to leave.

“Jumped up little cocksucker,” Blount mutters none too quietly behind him. “Such a fuckin’ disgrace.”

The conversation nearby dies. Someone coughs.

Hux stiffens. It doesn’t begin to approach the worst thing anyone’s ever said about him, even to his face—the late, great Brendol Hux certainly a contender there—but it plucks at a nerve that’s been strumming all day in response to the appraising looks, the poorly concealed smirks, the whispers, _Must be a sight, Hux on his knees._

It shouldn’t bother him; it doesn’t. He takes another step, posture perfect, only staggering when a low, too-familiar voice asks, “What did you say?”

Ren. Ren is still there. Standing in front of Blount. _Looming_ , in fact.

“Oh—nothing, Supreme Leader, I mean…nothing _you_ should worry about,” Blount is saying. His broad face reddening.

“No, I’d like to hear it. Again,” Ren says, _sotto voce_. The sing-song lilt that presages the violent application of his lightsaber, usually to some expensive piece of equipment. “Go ahead, _Admiral_.”

“I—“ Blount’s eyes bug. His boots lift off the ground. His hands clutch at this throat.

The noise evacuates the room, leaving only the sound of the man’s grunts as he fights for air.

“Ah, Ren?” Hux says. Certain he’s never spoken so tentatively in his life.

“General.” He tilts his head, considering him, as though he’s just arrived.

 _What the fuck are you doing?_   he can’t, won’t ask.

“Tell me when,” Ren murmurs.

“What.”

 _Tell me when to let him go_ , he means.

 _Fuck_. 

Blount is kicking and wheezing now, turning purple. The blood vessels have burst in his scleras, pinking them; tears stream down his cheeks. No one moves to help him. The entirety of the Admiralty gaping at this triptych: him, Ren, Blount. Seeing, really seeing, Ren for the first time in all his malevolent glory, how tall and imposing he is (un-slouched), the terrible, glittering dark of his eyes, his hand outstretched, that much more brutal for his stillness. 

And…Hux at his side.

“Tell me,” Ren repeats.

 _Tell me to break his neck_ , he means, too.

He thinks, distantly, of asking Phasma to kill Brendol, his slow dissolution in the bacta tank, lingering, exquisite. Recalls the people he’s seen to personally over the years, the light going out of their eyes. No, he has no qualms, of course—he never has—and Blount aggravates him enough to merit it. The question instead becomes what his death might accomplish.

If Blount dies, the others might panic. If he lives: humiliation (yes, good). Also their fear. The dread of death makes people do foolish things; best not to put their backs against the wall right away. The dread of _this_ , though—could be effective. And he, Hux, as the voice of reason. An intriguing possibility.

“That’s enough, Ren,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t move, waiting. Raises one eyebrow.

“ _Supreme Leader_ ,” Hux adds. Louder now. Keeping the irritation out of his voice. “Please release him.”

The Admiral drops to the floor with a sickening _thud_ , but he’s alive, coughing and twitching, the sharp reek of piss coming strong off him. The crowd pauses, then churns anxiously back to life, overcompensating now for the silence. 

Hux approaches Blount, drops to a crouch next to his head. “They’ll never forget this,” he tells him. “They’ll never forget who spared you, you miserable fuck. And neither should you.” He straightens, sends a cold glance around the room, and nods once at anyone who’s still staring. Most of them look away.

Ren is watching Hux, breathing hard. (Although he doubts this brief exercise taxed him.) “Come on,” he says in an undertone before stalking away, the Force all but _hauling_ Hux in his wake. 

He doesn’t wait to be told twice, doesn’t much care what it looks like now, him hurrying after Ren.

“What the fuck was that,” he wants to know as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“He insulted you,” Ren says. Obvious as ever. Irritated by the question.

He won’t receive an answer to _and why would you fucking care_. And he doubts Ren really knows; the man is still all impulse, raw emotion lashing out at anyone who has the misfortune to get in the way. Probably it didn’t occur to him that he would mind someone else ridiculing Hux in public until it happened. More than likely he sees it as some absurd reflection on himself, a lack of respect for his position, for him. Certainly, it has almost nothing to do with _Hux_ ; the only idea more laughable than Ren giving a shit about his feelings is that he might just have choked a man in some misguided attempt to defend his honor. 

(And truthfully: he has none. Has always been more than willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his ends. He’s not ashamed of it. No, it’s not the implication, however inaccurate, that he’s been spending time between Ren’s legs that he resents—he’d kriffing set up shop down there permanently if he thought it would help—but rather that any of them, those fucking fossils in their starched dress uniforms with every tacky piece of hardware they’ve ever earned for sloughing out of bed on prominent display, somehow deserve to be in his place. It _galls_ him to be yanked to and fro daily by a power against which he can’t defend, wielded by a fickle overgrown child, to nevertheless be holding everything the Order has together with both hands, and to still, _still_ be called a grasping little slut for his trouble. As though that’s all he is.)

“General,” Ren says, breaking through his thoughts—he’s lost the thread, fuck, where are they even going?—and that’s the only warning Hux has before he’s being bodily dragged through a door and pinned against a wall.

He feels a peculiar surge of relief that Ren bothered to use his hands rather than the Force before the cold understanding sets in that somehow this is it, that he’s decided to kill him after all, in spite of…whatever just happened. Because Kylo Ren is nothing if not unpredictable.

Even more fitting, perhaps, that he kisses him instead.

Had he ever devoted much thought to the matter, Hux supposes he would have imagined Ren would kiss like this: violent, a little clumsy, teeth catching on his lower lip, more tongue than strictly necessary, one meaty thigh shoved hard between his legs, hands bruising tight on his shoulders, holding him in place. He does what he can with his limited range of motion; he tilts his head back to better angle their mouths together, grabs Ren’s shirt in both fists, and licks back into that wide, hungry mouth until they both moan at the rough slide of their tongues.

“Hells— _what_ ,” Hux is puffing when they pull apart. He’s been singularly inarticulate today; it would worry him more, if not for, well, _this_.

“I like you speechless,” Ren mutters in response to the unspoken thought. Turns his attention to Hux’s throat, popping his collar open, biting and sucking the skin he finds there. Moves back up to his jaw. Noses at his cheek. Still this side of ungentle. “You should have seen your face just now.” 

“What are you _doing_ , Ren,” Hux asks, meaning both the scene in the lounge and this, now. “Do you even know? Do you ever?”

Ren sinks his hands into his hair instead of answering. Or, he tries to—draws back immediately with a grimace of distaste. “I’m going to fucking ban this stuff,” he says, meaning Hux’s pomade. Both palms tacky with it, he drags them against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks there. 

  _All the more reason to stockpile it_ , Hux decides before shoving the thought away. “My apologies, Supreme Leader,” he demurs instead. “If I’d known…” He starts to sink to his knees, assuming this is why Ren went for his hair. It’s somewhat awkward—he’s not as practiced at this particular transition as he once was. It’s actually been a while; counter to popular opinion, he hasn’t sucked cock on the regular since he was a captain.

Still, it surprises him when Ren grabs him above the elbows and hauls him upright. There’s that tightness, too, around his neck, as if Hux might resist.

“Not that,” Ren says. A little too quickly. His expression oddly fierce. “Not after—all of them. Gloating about it all day like that.”

Hux blinks. Hadn’t considered that Ren would be listening, hearing much more than he could. Had thought even less that it would bother him. He tends to assume Ren’s indifference to the world around him, but that isn’t quite accurate. If anything, he cares too much—but only about inconsequential matters. Strange that should include even the smallest thing to do with him, however.

“What then,” Hux says. Not sure how to address this point, unsure he should even try. And still pinned. He rolls his hips forward against the obvious bulge in Ren’s pants. “I assume you’d like to do _something_ about that.”

He groans by way of answer.

“You want to fuck me?” Hux grins, liking this new plan immediately. Watches Ren’s eyes darken. _Yes, fuck yes_. Dares to shift in his grip a bit. “Mm. You can let go, you know. I’ll be good.” Meaning, too, the Force snugged around his Adam’s apple.

He finds himself spun around and slammed into the wall by way of answer. Loses his breath for a moment. Sees stars. 

That may have been a miscalculation.

Ren presses up against his back, erection digging hard into his arse. “You want off your leash, is that it, Hux? Another chance to bite?” Tone soft, and so especially dangerous. _Tread carefully_ , it warns. _There’s a reason I muzzled you in the first place_.

“I hardly can like this, can I?” he points out. Keeping his own voice very mild. Reasonable. Squirms back against Ren. Feels, more than hears, him moan this time. “Come now, you have to sense I want it, too.”

He does, in fact. Has been at least mildly aroused since Ren dragged Blount off his feet and dangled him in the air for everyone to see. Humps Ren’s hand now when he palms Hux through his pants, earning a curse. He’s never been opposed to him like this. As a rival, an obstacle to his aspirations, a threat to his ship and operations, certainly. But if he’d wanted sex before, Hux would have readily agreed. 

(And, true, would have resumed plotting against him the moment they were through. Nonetheless.)

“You don’t have to trust me to fuck me,” he informs Ren. Matter-of-fact. Conversational almost. “I don’t expect you to; you shouldn’t, probably. Take whatever precautions you like, just please, get this chokehold off my neck, if you want to do this.” 

This seems to be the right thing to say, because he can _breathe_ , fully, unrestricted. It’s all he can do not to rub away the lingering feeling of it, that grip. “Thank you,” he sighs. Meaning it. Resenting it.

Ren slides his hands from his arms, down, then up under his shirt. Skims his fingers over the skin of his belly. Fondles his arse, palms the back of his thighs, squeezes his calves through his boots. Frisking him, Hux realizes, amused, _and_ feeling him up. How efficient.

When’s he finished, Ren takes his earlobe between his teeth, not quite biting it. Licks the back of his neck. “Okay, Hux. You said you’d be good. So be good. _Stay._ ” 

In other words, _I better not find you with a knife in your hand when I return_. He snorts.

Then there’s nothing but cool air, the sudden lack of a warm body behind his, and footsteps. The sound of Ren rummaging around the ‘fresher. 

He could go. Despite the command, despite the test of it, he could leave. Not do this. Instead, he settles his feet more evenly, hands braced on the wall. Has a sensation of being appraised before he hears Ren behind him again, then feels him, the heat radiating off him. Hux closes his eyes, releases a long exhale. Still reveling in being able to really _breathe_.

The next touch is light, skimming down between his shoulder blades. Another ghosts across his hip. Ren’s knee brushes the inside of his own. His belt loosens and falls away. Strong arms circle his waist, drawing him back against Ren’s chest. It’s both more and less than he thought it would be, had expected rough hands, his clothes torn off. Instead: this taut quiet. He can feel Ren struggling with the hidden buttons on his uniform.

“Ah. Let me,” he says. Not wanting them scattered. While he does, Ren works his pants open, dragging them and his shorts down his thighs, exposing him to the air of the room. Hux shrugs out of his shirt, pulls the one under it up and over his head. Leans forward into the wall, his face pressed to his forearm. Not sure what kind of show he must be making of himself, back bare, hips slightly outthrust.

Those big hands close around him, just above his arse, thumbs resting in the soft divots there, and Ren laves and nips and kisses his way down, tonguing the small constellation of freckles at the base of his spine. Hux moans.

“How many of them have had this, hm?” Ren asks. The lilt. Deceptive, as ever, in its gentleness. “How many of those posturing cowards out there did you let fuck you, General?” He’s spreading Hux’s cheeks now. Breath humid, there. 

He considers this. There had been no few in his Academy days, although most of those men are dead. A handful of senior officers after he made lieutenant, one colonel when he was a captain. But—

“So many?” Ren wonders. Circles his rim with one dry finger.

“None, in fact,” Hux says. Startled when he comes to this conclusion. “No one here, that is,” he adds, lest Ren mistake his meaning. He’s done his fair share and more elsewhere.

Nonetheless, that admission, apparently, earns him a long lick. He shudders.

“Oh fuck,” Ren says. “That’s it.” Huffing laughter, little puffs of air against him. Then, another lick, tongue swirling this time. More. “Why they—mmm—hate you so much.” Lapping at him now. “Jealous fucks. They wanted _this_.” That first press inside. A second. “And you. Never. That’s perfect, Hux, so perfect.”

He’s writhing, both under the now slurping attention to his arse and the strange praise. “I. Ah! Don’t really think.” Can’t find a coherent end to his sentence. Ren presses closer, nose poking him just above. Fucking him with his tongue, loosening him, the wet slide of it, the _sound_. Hux’s cock jumps; his knees tremble. “ _Fuck._ Careful. _”_

Ren withdraws, hands closed on his hips, holding him in place as he stands. He’s still fully clothed, his shirt dragging against the skin of Hux’s back, him in nothing but his boots with his trousers bunched above his knees, dog tags hanging around his neck. 

“No, they do,” Ren insists, breath hot in his ear. “Sith hell, they hate it, never having you, and you’re so—beyond them now. The _filth_ they’ve been thinking about you all day, you’ve no idea.”

He sounds angry at this last—no, _possessive_. 

And _that’s_ what happened, Hux finally understands, sometime in these past weeks: Ren, in the process of putting his boot on his neck, in keeping him as close as he can, leash drawn tight, not trusting him, making him dance, has also decided _mine_ and _yes_ without being quite cognizant of the fact. _His_ toy, to be broken or not. As he sees fit.

 _Well, fuck_ , Hux thinks. And that again when Ren’s first slick finger breaches him without warning. He bites back a cry. 

“Why then?” Ren demands in his ear. Licks his cheek while he works him open.

Hux tries not to grimace, recalling where his mouth has been. Suspects he doesn’t succeed. Knows Ren probably enjoys that, his discomfort. He’s absolutely the type. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to be like them—so much?” 

“I—Fuck.” A second finger slips in. Hux’s nails scrabble at the wall. “I don’t. They’re—obsolete. As you said.”

“You want their approval, though,” Ren says. Hand moving steady, fingers crooked.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I don’t. It’s only. Politics.”

“You play their games. You—bow and scrape for them.” That disapproving voice.

 _When I should only bow and scrape for you, hm?_ he doesn’t say. Doesn’t know if he earns a third finger for not speaking it or for still thinking it. Regardless. “That’s, ah. There, _there_ ,” he begs. Shocked at how ragged his voice sounds already. He’s drooling a little. “That’s the life, Ren. My life.”

It almost makes him dizzy, to be turned around again, his back hitting the wall, not quite stumbling with his legs hampered as they are. And he knows exactly what kind of show he’s making of himself now: hair mussed, red-cheeked, chest flushed, cock pink and already wet, mouth shiny with spit, expression dazed. 

Ren, staring at him again, hums his approval at what a mess he is. “It doesn’t have to be,” he mutters, right before he hauls Hux up and onto his cock.

 _When did you even take it out_ , Hux wants to know, feeling cheated, but there’s the progression of sensation to deal with—the stinging _stretch_ and his own body’s resistance, and also the inclination to give a little, wanting to spread wider. To open his legs for this intrusion and find some leverage, but they’re awkwardly pinned against Ren’s chest, boots slanting off to the side with no purchase. All he can do is let his head fall back against the wall with a _thunk,_ eyes fluttering shut, hands twitching on Ren’s shoulders. _Fuck_.

It’s only after Ren’s fully seated and the air comes back into his lungs that he realizes what he said. _Doesn’t have to be_.

“What did you—“ he breathes, even as Ren jerks him upward and drags him back down onto his cock, thrusting into him, fucking him onto it.

“This world they yearn for never existed.” His hands clench bruisingly tight on Hux’s hips as he moves them both, trying to find a steady pace. “It’ll ruin—us—fighting for it. We can do something better. New.” 

And of _course_ , Ren talks like this during sex. Hux might have known he’d get a dramatic bloody monologue for his efforts. 

 _What is he even saying?_  

“You and me. If you—if you just fucking _would_. Ah, _kriff_ , Hux, you’re tight.” Shifts his grip lower, adjusting the angle. “Here.”

That first push of Ren’s cock against his prostate wrings a shout from Hux. “ _Fuck._ ” His head knocks back into the wall. He remembers, then, that they’re on a station populated entirely with his political opponents. Brings one wrist up to his mouth and _bites_ down at the next burst of pleasure. And the next, almost drawing blood.

Ren _tsks_ at him after the third time and draws Hux’s arm away from his teeth. Kisses— _why?_ —where he’s left marks on himself. Puts that hand back on his shoulder. Moving shallowly now, both of them gasping. “I told you,” he says. “They don’t matter.” Then: “Go on. Be loud for me.” Drags another cry from him. “Make them jealous.”

It has the cadence of a challenge: _c’mon, Hux, show me what you’ve got_. Not so different from their usual sense of competition really. And very well, then, if Ren wants a game, they’ll play. Loud, he says? Loud he can do. 

Shouting is, after all, one of his primary functions.

“So fucking good, Ren. Yes. _Yes._ Fuck me—harder, harder— _please._ ” Adds a cracked “ _Supreme Leader_ ,” that makes Ren falter and suck in a rough breath, eyes squeezing shut, forehead dropping to Hux’s shoulder for a moment. He grins, feeling he’s scored a point. 

He’ll have to remember that one for next time.

“Thinking about me inside you again already?” Ren hisses in his ear. Recovered now. “So _eager_.” Punctuating this with an especially hard thrust.

“Which one of us was, _ah_ , talking about our—fuh- _uck_ —our glorious future, Ren? Hm?” Hux pants. “Sounds like you want m-more from me than— _kriff_ —than my _arsehole_.”

Throwing down a gauntlet of sorts. Their eyes lock.

Ren narrows his. His hair hangs, sweaty and tangling, around his face. “Yours?” He brushes two fingers against where he’s buried inside Hux, the muscle stretched to gaping. Even that light contact makes it spasm. “Pretty sure this belongs to me, _General_.”

 _Just like the rest of you_ , he doesn’t say. Doesn’t have to, pounding into him now.

“Oh f-f-fuck you,” he huffs through the onslaught. He’s starting to feel tender, oversensitive, even the drag of Ren’s shirt on his skin beginning to ache. It’s been too long since he’s done this, probably.

“You love it,” Ren says. “I can tell.” Grinning, feral, at Hux. Seeing his advantage. 

And no doubt he has at least one, Hux thinks. Biting back a groan. Which calls for a change of tactics. 

“Fuck, I do, I love your cock,” he moans, wanton, instead of goading him again. Clings to Ren’s shoulders as he rocks into him. “Fuck, it’s so good, Ren. I—I think I’m going to come soon. May I come?” It’s both a line and a genuine request. He doesn’t have the right angle to get himself off, his cock trapped by how his legs are pressed up against Ren. “ _Please_.” 

They’re close enough that he can see his pupils dilate, black expanding into that warm brown. Yes, yes, he liked that. Excellent. “You think you deserve to come, Hux?”’

“Y-yes.” He’s whining now. “I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Leaning into it. Means it in some way. 

“Is it right for you to come before your Supreme Leader?” One hand tightens on his hip, too hard.

“Nnngh—no. Of course not.” And also: _oh, you bastard_.

Ren leans closer still, looking him in the eyes, daring him, maybe, to avert his own. “Should I come inside you, then? That’s what you want? Me to fill up that tight ass?”

He’s never surrendered in any battle for eye contact—adores the perfect unspoken aggression of it—and he doesn’t now. Stares Ren down, even, especially, as he squirms and whimpers on his cock. “Yes, yes, please.” Then: “Don’t you want to, Ren? It’s yours to fill, remember—ah, ah— _sir_.”

That last does it.

No matter what happens, Hux will have this, the way his brows clench, the slight _o_ of those thick lips, the keening growl he makes when he comes, when _Hux has made him come_ with a single well-chosen syllable. It’s almost enough to send him over the edge right after him, watching Ren’s release shudder through him, all the while feeling the hot pulse of it inside him. Thinking, somewhat despite himself: _lovely_ and _yes_. Not minding how Ren presses his face against the hollow of his throat after, breath stuttering there, those long lashes trembling on his skin.

It nearly undoes him again when he pulls free, sliding out of him just a touch too fast, come slipping down his thighs. 

Hux is scarcely aware of it when his feet hit the floor, Ren bracing him when his numb legs almost give out, and then there’s a hot mouth on his cock and two fingers in his arse, fucking wetly, obscenely into him. And _fuck_ , only a moment of that treatment tears a hoarse shout from him, his voice shattered, and everything goes a bit white.

When he comes back to himself, still twitching and gasping, he finds Ren has lowered them both to the floor, has him splayed ragdoll loose against him, petting his side with one hand. The carpet’s rough on his skin, but otherwise he has few complaints. Few thoughts at all, for once. 

Ren’s more than a little smug when he looks at him, despite his own swollen mouth and blown pupils. Probably counting it a victory that he made Hux come so hard he almost passed out. And—fair.

But he can manage one last volley, even as he lolls against his shoulder, pulse slowing. Seizes Ren’s right hand, sticky with his own come from when he pressed it back into Hux. Takes those two long fingers into his mouth down to the knuckle and _sucks_ , hollowing his cheeks around them, laving them with his tongue. (Disgusting, yes, but he’s proving a point.) Draws off them with a wet _pop_. 

He could swear Ren looks _impressed_ before he pushes him down onto the floor, kissing him sloppy and openmouthed, the taste of Hux still on his tongue, both of them trying to push something into the other now. Eventually, they grow lazy, the two of them sprawled together, biting tiredly at each other. Less frantic than earlier. Once or twice, Ren seems like he might say something, lips giving shape but no voice to the words before he thinks better of it. Kisses him hard instead. 

When he lets him up again,  Hux moves to take off his boots, the last constriction, sighing as the zips come down, and he can finally kick out of his pants, too. “Kriff,” he says when he finds a long tear along the seam. “You’ve wrecked them. Of course you have.”

“So put on new ones,” Ren shrugs. Still fully dressed.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” he demands. Thinking, with some dread, of having to find his way back to his quarters looking like he’s just been fucked within an inch of his life.

“Hux. We’re in _your room._ ” 

He blinks. They never got farther than the entryway, but yes, those are his effects at the end of the bed, and Ren’s are right next door. “But—this is an executive suite.”

“So?” He might be smirking.

“So they’re soundproofed, Ren. For conspiring or what have you.”

“Or what have you.” Definitely smirking.

“Oh, fuck you.” There’s not much venom in it, for once. Hux leans back against the wall, trying not to laugh, although he almost wants to. He feels good—better than he has in— _that_ felt good. 

 _But no one heard. That’s…surprising_. _I thought that was the point?_

Ren shakes his head. “If they had, it wouldn’t matter. They don’t matter, Hux. They only kept insisting that they did until you believed them. _That’s_ the point.”

 _Okay, yes. Is that all?_ He should get up. Get clean. Can’t quite convince his legs to move yet. 

Ren’s hand falls on his wrist. Caressing where he hurt himself before. Stilling him. Not finished, then. “I meant what I said,” he tells Hux. Looking at him, intent, searching his face, maybe his mind, too. “We can make something else. Both of us. If you want. Something greater than the Empire ever was. You could help me do that.”

He studies Ren, in turn. He’s not a liar, never has been, that terrible earnestness of his face, the scar making it worse somehow. Too expressive, always. Clear he’s sincere now. 

It _is_ tempting. Another chance to prove his worth and to silence his critics—literally if at all possible—always appeals to him. The glory of the conquest also. Plus: less scraping, less looking over his shoulder, at least where Ren is concerned. He’ll have to cater to his whims, no doubt; this is just another one to account for, maybe the easiest one, considering. But it’s likely they won’t agree on much; Hux loves order and pomp and tech too much to ever submit to Ren’s messy mysticism and impulsive decisions. 

And the central problem remains. 

“You can still throw me much, much farther than you’ll ever trust me,” Hux points out, since they’re being candid, here, in the aftermath. _And inevitably, you’ll want me muzzled again. Leashed._ He thinks of the Force clenching around his neck. Scowls.

“Yes, well,” Ren murmurs. Not disputing this. He lifts his hand to cup Hux’s nape, thumb stroking down his throat, sparking small twinges where he bit him earlier. His eyes glint. _Proprietary_. “Maybe we can get you a nicer collar.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses.


End file.
